Encore
by AstraPerAspera
Summary: James Watson contemplates the fact that he may have witnessed this drama once before. S1, midway through Revelations.


Encore

by

AstraPerAspera

It was a drama for which he wished he did not have a front row seat. Almost worthy of the melodramatic rubbish his assistants were always trying to make him watch for entertainment on that confounded box Tesla had claimed to invent. Except while that insignificant tripe was pathetically laughable, there was nothing remotely humorous about what he was witnessing first hand. In fact, it left him rather choleric, which only compounded the other sensations he'd been feeling of late which were completely unrelated to the situation at hand. Except, of course, tangentially and, perhaps, in an indirect way—which he found to be rather ironic, actually, all things considered.

This was how it had been before, and there was a sharp pang at the recollection of suddenly becoming as invisible as Griffin whenever the two of them were in the room together. Quite simply, everyone else disappeared. Vanished into oblivion—or might as well have, for all they noticed. In one another's company the rest of the world simply did not exist.

He couldn't imagine what that must be like. Well…not exactly true. He could, and indeed had, on many occasions, pondered how it must be to lose oneself in another so completely. He had not been a young man without his own designs, after all. Captivated by a brilliant convergence of beauty and intellect that, in his pre-transformed state, had matched his own. Yes. Well. Intellect wise, at least—he'd had no illusions as to his own physical mien. And for a few self-delusional months he'd harboured some hope.

But for all Tesla's talent with electricity, his were but a few paltry sparks compared with what ignited when the two of them were together. One hardly needed his own keen insight to recognize that. So he'd conceded defeat early on and graciously acknowledged that the better man had indeed won.

Except, when all was said and done, he hadn't; although that had become painfully evident far too late for him or any of the others to do anything about, or to protect her. She'd surrendered herself, heart, mind and body, and while the fiend had never harmed a hair on her head, he may just as well have slit her throat and eviscerated her as he had all his other victims for the anguish he had caused her. It was difficult to even reflect on that time without feeling that uncharacteristic surge of anger at the cold and calculated way in which John had destroyed her love. It caused all kinds of unpleasant feedback from the "black box," as Henry called it, which monitored his every twitch.

And now, here it was all over again. Different, yet oddly the same. He'd witnessed it himself when the matter of the Source was raised. That silent exchange where, on some level none of the rest of them could begin to reach, they understood each other perfectly without having to utter a single word. The boy—her protégé—for all his talents, had missed it completely; he had not. Just like old times. Before all Hell had broken loose.

To Helen's credit, she seemed not completely taken in this time. One hundred and twenty years did tend to hone one's cautionary sensibilities, even if the brutal taskmaster of experience hadn't already made her wary. But there were those moments when he could see that wall of skepticism waiver ever so slightly, and what he assumed to be her innate reaction to that connection they'd always had supercede her more rational response. Had he been the dramatic sort, he might have gone up to her at such times and told her to snap out of it, but as yet he'd failed to see it truly cloud her judgment. Better, anyway, to make his own determination. He had retained just enough of a bruise on his ego after all these years to desire his own form of retribution. If that meant exposing John for the fraud he might possibly be, then so be it. Better for Helen to be faced with the stark reality of the lie now before too many of those old feelings reasserted themselves.

Besides. He wasn't sure he would last long enough to pick up the pieces as he had last time. His body might be failing but his memory certainly wasn't. The months that had followed John's final atrocity had been brutal on her, in spite of her efforts to insist otherwise. She'd thrown herself into her father's work with such vehemence and careless abandon that if he hadn't provided her with suitable inventions for her own protection and defense, the gift of her longevity would have barely been put to use. He didn't care to witness an encore, especially now that there were two victims involved. He hadn't failed to notice that Ashley had herself been drawn in to the whole milieu. The consequences of John's potential charade would have ramifications he couldn't begin to assess.

So. Better to cut off the snake's head now. Or at the very least, poke it with a sharp stick to see how venomous it really was. He'd lived all these long and tiresome years thinking perhaps the opportunity to wield his own sharpened knife would never come. And while he liked to believe that he was only doing this for Helen and the sake of the urgent matter at hand, he'd be lying if he didn't admit there was a certain satisfaction to be gained from prodding John in the tender spots to see if the snake would strike. It would almost be like old times for him as well.

Still…if the man's conversion was genuine…if, as he claimed, Tesla had indeed unwittingly cured him—and there was a certain amusing irony to think of a vampire exorcizing the demons of a mass murderer—then, in an odd way, he supposed he would be glad. Because John had once been his friend and one of the few men he'd ever met who could hold his own against him in conversations that ranged from the scientific to the philosophical. And because, before it had been destroyed, there had been something quite captivating being witness to what John and Helen had shared; and he supposed that buried beneath the anger at John for what he'd done there was also a sadness that such a precious thing had had to be destroyed. If John were indeed himself again, then perhaps the drama unfolding before him would not turn out to be tragedy after all, but a tale of lost love regained. In a way, he hoped it was; for Helen's sake—for John's sake—and most peculiarly, for his own. One hundred and twenty years was a long time to wait for a happy ending, even if one was just a spectator.

On second thought, perhaps having a front row seat wasn't such a bad thing after all.


End file.
